Take a Chance on Me (102 page)

"You're angry with me."

He looked down onto Emma's bent head and, without thinking, touched his fingers to her chin and raised her face.

"No I'm not, because you're right, Emma—she looks like me. In fact, she looks just like Pam did at that age. It's kind of spooky and I'd be lying if I said I didn't wonder the same thing for a second. But I'm not her father. I never had sex with Becca Weaverton. I think I would've remembered."

"I imagine you would."

Thomas cupped her face tenderly in his palm. "You two must have made the boys nuts."

Emma snorted. "Becca was the nut-maker. I just went along for the ride."

Thomas smiled down at her. Emma of the baggy sweatshirts really didn't know how beautiful she was.

He leaned close.

"Well, you make me nuts, Emma Jenkins. But I guess I'll just have to learn to live with that—for the time being."

He kissed her on the cheek and left.

« ^ »

T he guy who'd just walked into the bar had to be Tom—he looked like one seriously cold son of a bitch.

The hooker said to expect a big guy who'd been on the receiving end of a few punches. This man certainly fit the bill. Aaron watched him casually scan the dark room until his eyes stopped right on him.

With a slight nod, he walked toward Aaron's table.

No, Tom didn't exactly look like a rocket scientist, but he appeared ruthless enough to do what had to be done—what he didn't want to have to do himself.

"'Evening, Larry." The hit man slid into the booth.

"Tom?"

"That's my name."

The killer sprawled back against the seat like he was bored. His eyes were mean. He obviously was not going to be the one to start this conversation.

"So how long you been in this line of work?" Aaron asked him.

"Long enough," the killer said.

"Ever been caught?"

Tom blinked at him. "No, Larry. If I'd been caught, I'd be in jail."

"Right. So what'll you have?"

"I'll take a Bud."

Aaron jumped up from the booth and ordered a bottle of Budweiser for the hit man. Nothing more for himself; he needed to keep sharp.

When he reached into his pocket for five dollars, he noticed his hands were shaking. God, he was really going through with this—he was going to pay someone to kill Emma.

If she'd only given him the money. If she'd only listened!

"Here you go." Aaron tried to keep his voice steady.

"So what's the story, Larry?" The hit man took a big swig and stifled a belch. "Something I can help you with?"

Aaron stared at the killer. He seemed awful blasé about the whole business, but he supposed it was just another job to him. Yet the man's expression was anything but relaxed. His eyes were intense. Wise.

"It's my ex-wife," Aaron managed. "She's worth a small fortune."

"Yeah? How so?"

"Life insurance."

Tom frowned. "You're still the beneficiary?"

"Yeah. We agreed to stay on each other's policy for two years to make sure one of our uh … businesses stayed afloat should anything happen."

The killer leaned forward on his elbows and straightened the bill of his cap. He yawned. "What line of work are you in?"

Aaron flinched. Tom sure was asking a lot of questions. Like a cop.

"My work isn't important."

Tom shrugged. "So what can I do you for?"

"I think that's obvious."

The hit man smiled. "Look, Larry. I'm a busy guy. You need a hand with something? Fine. You changed your mind? Great. But I got better things to do than sit around here and play footsie with you." He stood up to leave.

"Wait."

The hit man hovered over him and looked mean as hell. He was perfect for the job. Aaron couldn't risk trying to find someone else. He was probably just being paranoid. And he'd come this far…

"Just wait a minute, okay?"

"You ready to do business?

"Oh, God," Aaron said. "I don't have any choice."

* * *

He was half in the bag and covered in a week's worth of scraggly beard, but his bright blue eyes burned with an eerie, sly intelligence. He spoke like someone with a college education. He was a small man, no more than five-nine and one sixty, but he held himself like someone used to a position of authority.

Thomas watched Larry go up to the bar, scanning his clothing for any signs he was carrying concealed.

He saw nothing obvious.

When Thomas stretched and said, "Let's party," he knew he'd appear to be talking to himself should anyone be looking. In reality, he was doing another sound check.

Chick was tending bar tonight, and gave Thomas a slow nod to indicate everyone was on board. Thomas reviewed to himself where the others were stationed. Manny and two technicians were in the electronic surveillance van down the street. Paulie was alone in the next booth with his head bowed over a beer, just like every other sorry sack in the place.

Four troopers were pulled from other assignments for tonight's campaign. Two of them—including the only woman on the team tonight—were at a small table near the front door. Another trooper was stationed outside by the kitchen door, and another was in the front parking lot.

All team members were armed and wired for sound. In the van, Manny could hear and see everything. As the one coming face-to-face with the suspect, Thomas was unarmed, as usual—there was nothing the solicitor could grab that way.

By the time the solicitor got back to the booth and started playing games with him, Thomas had already decided the guy was not your average Hancock tavern rat. The team's background investigation revealed that he'd only stopped in a few times before and no one at the bar knew his last name, what kind of car he drove, or where he lived. In the four days they'd staked out the establishment, Larry had never stopped by.

Thomas didn't like the way this smelled. Not one bit. And he decided to give the guy one more chance to go on record, and if he didn't bite, he was getting his people the hell out of there.

Thomas stood up to leave. It worked.

"I hate her," Larry said as soon as Thomas sat back down. "It was all her fault. The divorce."

Now they were getting somewhere…

"She was perfect. Did you ever know someone who was perfect?" He looked up to Thomas, his eyes watering. "Do you know how goddamned annoying it was to be married to someone who's so fucking good all the time?"

Now this was a complaint he'd never heard before. "Can't say that I do, Larry."

Larry shook his head. "Such a goody-goody bitch. I couldn't stand it anymore. She was on my back all the time about everything, like I couldn't be trusted. Then she divorced me—took fucking everything.

Ruined my life."

"How much is she worth?"

Larry raised his eyes. "Two hundred fifty thousand if it's an accident." He laughed bitterly, then grimaced. "And how much of that is going to belong to you, Tom?"

"Not a dime, Larry." Thomas smiled. "I get paid up front. In fact, when this is over, I don't care what happens to you or your insurance money. I don't even know you."

Larry returned his smile, and Thomas saw that he had gleaming, professionally straightened teeth framed in that patchy beard.

"That works for me," Larry said. "So how much?"

"Depends on how much you got and what kind of job you want done. Why don't we start with the basics—what's her name, how do I find her, and what do you want done?"

Larry's face fell. He tightly clasped his hands together on the table, but they still shook.

"Don't tell me about it, okay?" Larry's strange blue eyes were swimming in tears when he looked up. "I don't want to have any kind of picture in my head that's going to make me crazy for the rest of my life. I just need the money. That's all. It's only the money… "

Then Larry dropped his face into his hands and cried.

Thomas waited, trying to appear disinterested while his chest grew tighter with each passing second. He still hadn't managed to get what he needed—the name of the intended victim, explicit instructions to commit a felony, a payment. The solicitor had even carried the beer to the table in a bar napkin, as if he didn't want to leave prints.

Thomas realized Larry might be too smart—and too cautious—to incriminate himself.

"I gotta go to the john." Larry was up and walking away from the table, headed toward the men's room.

"Solicitor is moving," Thomas said aloud, already seeing the trooper leave the jukebox with Paulie on his heels.

It went wrong fast.

The trooper outside the kitchen left his post and walked into the front room, apparently hoping to put an extra set of eyeballs on the solicitor.

But Larry hadn't gone into the men's room. He'd gone into the ladies' room, squeezed through the window and was gone.

Moments later, Thomas stood in a dark patch of woods behind the garbage Dumpster with Paulie and Chick, picking burrs off his flannel shirt.

"How'd he know?" Chick asked. "How in the hell did he know?"

"Not sure," Thomas said, looking around in the darkness. The guy had escaped on foot, probably to a car parked a good way off. The team was out looking for him, but Thomas wasn't holding his breath.

They'd screwed up—and that was all there was to say.

"Not exactly a textbook operation, gentlemen," Thomas said.

"We didn't get shit, did we?" Paulie asked.

"Nope." In fact, they didn't even know Larry's real name.

Thomas pushed aside the brambles and stalked toward the parking lot. "And I'll tell you—I'm a little worried about the ex—Mrs. Larry, whoever the hell she might be."

* * *

"She's good." He looked out the passenger window to the industrial flatland north of the Maryland border.

"I see."

They were on their way to take a peek at the life of Simon Slickowski, aka Scott Slick. Since Emma's discovery, Regina had been able to put the pieces together with ease. The bottom line: Slick led a double life. His primary residence was in a trailer park in Delaware . Everything he owned and everything he did—

from his car registration to his credit cards—was done under his late mother's name. In Baltimore he was Scott Slick, the bookie. In Delaware , he was Simon Slickowski, Vernelle's boy, a quiet man who worked part-time at a video store and doted on his weird, ugly dancing dog.

In Vernelle Slickowski's savings account was more than three-quarters of a million dollars.

Thomas sighed—just what he needed. Additional proof that no one could be trusted, that no one was who they claimed to be.

Except maybe Emma. Responsible, sweet, funny Emma. "I'd like to meet her," Regina said. "Just to thank her for helping us out."

"Sure."

Things were moving fast with her, but for some reason, it didn't scare him.

He'd invited Emma, Leelee, and Beckett to his rugby match this coming Saturday, then over to his place for dinner with Pam and Rollo and the boys. He hadn't decided what to serve the horde, but it had to be something that didn't involve turning on the blender.

He'd made reservations for just the two of them next Friday at Bayside Stella's, and he'd called early enough to snag an outdoor table. He hoped the warm weather would hold.

In short, he was doing his damnedest to speed along the "for the time being." He was patient. He was gentlemanly. He could wait until she was ready.

As long as it didn't take too much longer.

"So tell me about her."

Thomas looked over at Regina and frowned. "Who?"